Girl Jungle

NIMBY Wind?

Having just returned from a windswept drive around the spectacular Gaspé Peninsula and through northern Maine,  I must report ongoing confusion with the wind power controversy. Some folks think wind turbines are ugly. A pox on the land. Interruptive of nature's majesty. A dangerous environmental concession.

Correct me if I'm wrong,  but these things are beautiful, right?  Stunningly simple, manificent, really. And even more beautiful when one considers the clean energy they conjure .  Juice produced without holes in the ground, pipelines, ocean spills, carbon dioxide or global terrorism.  What could be more logical?

Of course there are trade offs. Birds, a little whir, sometihing man made on the horizon. But let's face it,  a fondness for too much ice cream yields bigger butts, and power generation isn't totally without consequences either.  Seems to me, the aesthetic and environmental trade offs present in wind power are minimal when one considers the upsides, not the least of which is the intrinsic aesthetic of the turbines themselves. Maine's former Governor, Angus King who worked in the demand side management side of the energy business before his political career has founded a new initiative called  Independence WInd and believe you me, if Angus think's it's a good idea, it probably is.   

For heaven's sake! Some countries are so proud of their wind technology they put it on postcards!  It's all a matter of perspective, I suppose.      

 

This year, I'm voting smart.

I am taking a few moments off from my current stock price obsession to reveal some exciting new political thinking.  And boy, it's earth shattering, this insight of mine.

This year, I've decided, it pays to vote smart.  Not that we ought not consider our options carefully at every voting opportunity.  What I mean is,  I'm sick of stupid candidates. Candidates who wink and sneer, mispronounce nuke-u-ler and think international diplomacy means liking Chinese food.  You betcha.

How is it we actually seem to admire leaders who proudly announce they've only had a passport for a year, attended five, count-em F.I.V.E. mediocre institutions of higher learning before actually graduating and whose undergraduate class rank was next to last.

SInce when has top of heap, best in class, thoughtful, accomplished achievement become a political liability? What's with all this anti-intellectual prejudice?

It seems to me, given the complexity and gravity of the current domestic and world situation, we ought to can the folksy, down-home crap and seek the best minds we can to help navigate us out of this hole.

And here's the deal,  smart people can disagree but they at least believe in science, have read history and understand (as well as one can) economics.  Field dressing a moose?  Nice soundbite but pretty irrelevant training for hardball.

Returns from late night

In the interest of science, (with simulcasts made possible thanks to my trusty TIVO,)  I stayed up late last night to watch the return of late night TV.

The writer's strike had sent Jay, Dave and Conan (and countless others) off on two months of exile. Last night, they returned, two sans-writers, one back to normal thanks to an adroitly written one-off contract with the WGA.

So how were they?  To be frank, mixed.

First, let me go off on a little rant about men and beards. Why, oh why, do men immediately go native when something interrupts their normal routine?  Both Conan and Dave returned to live air sporting ridiculous facial hair.  Letterman looked like an (old) rabbi. Conan, oh dear.  I guess it gave him something to talk about. (and God knows he needed it...) Dave had a full compliment of writers, (and actual guests...)  WTF?

But back to the shows.

Usually, I'm a Letterman girl.  And while I don't dislike Jay,  I prefer the East-coast flavored drollery of Dave and his wonderful side-kick, Paul Shaeffer. Last night, both were good.  Letterman, with no picket line problem, offered A-list guest, Robin Williams and a well written, (if a little sanctimonious) program made possible by the side deal his company, World Wide Pants crafted with the union to allow the show to go on.

But last night, Jay won the duel.  Working without a net, Jay was on his game. Good jokes, good energy and a smart show plan, Jay invited a Republican presidential candidate (no scab issues there...) and a tv chef to fill out the dance card. The hour and a half flew, better, actually than usual.  Jay's stand up-roots shone. He owned the material and infused the night with an unusual energy and passion for the work that showed me why he's the king of late night's prime real estate.

What followed, however, was dismal (and the beard not the half of it.)  Conan, back in the day, shone with t he help of  frat boy writers and their urbane, Hasty-Pudding yuks. Cool guests, great music and the fabulous Max Weinberg band.

Last night? Manic mediocrity. Conan on fear and adrenaline (with a beard) was not good. Not good at all. Compared to Jay, his show appeared to be pasted together with spit and arrogance.  Not well-planned, not well-scripted, not much at all, really.  Conan's "guests," Bob Saget (huh?) and a stand-up wannabe were, well, willing to cross a picket line. The program's highlight, as usual, was the band. (La Bomba's comic mugging was the funniest thing all night.)

Turn's out, Letterman's entrepreneurial deal-making trumped the mega-corp networks and forced his competition back to the airwaves without portfolio. Going forward, until the strike is settled, Jay and Conan are going to have a tough time putting out a quality product. Writing one's own material night after night will be an issue, more so will be finding company willing to cross the line. Unsustainable.

Moral of the story? Quality programming come from talent not gimmicks. Content needs uh, content. Pay the writers. Now and later. Without them, you're toast.

It ain't the motion...(It's the MEAT!)

As some of you might remember I, and most of my tribe belong to the Church of the Roasted Bovine where worship begins and ends with red wine and red meat. (Alleluia!)

For Christmas dinner this year I decided to do it up right with a giant (5 rib) slab of perfect, luscious, glistening prime (and I mean PRIME) rib. Oh boy.

Now first off, you supermarket shoppers need to understand that all meat is not created equal. Just because it looks like a nice piece of meat, (and maybe even costs like a nice piece of meat) doesn't guarantee you're going to love it going in to your mouth.

Three things contribute to great meat: grade, age and cut.  Most supermarkets sell what is gingerly called "choice."  At least two grades below the top stuff available at the best restaurants (and my house.) It is often difficult to find prime beef since it is relatively rare and is usually scoffed up by the stove trade before consumer markets have a chance to get their hands on it.

Next, a savvy meat buyer understands age. Particularly important in cuts of steak, dry or wet aging of meat adds greatly to flavor and tenderness.  Dry aging, usually done for a period up to a couple of months,  is particularly prized but must be carefully and skillfully done so that the meat leaves the butcher shop both safe and ready to cook having been trimmed of the dry age "rind."

Finally cut comes in to play.  A skillful butcher knows exactly how to balance the correct amount of fat, bone and flesh density to create a cut that's attractive to serve, flavorful and easy to cook.

In meat, it pays to know your purveyor. What might be cheaper at the supermarket is anonymous. Meat prepared for you by a professional is always a better investment in taste and predictable quality.

When I ordered my Christmas roast, the nice counter man at the Meat House in York, Maine asked whether I wanted it bones in, bones out or cut and tied.  The latter is my preferred configuration since it provides the cook, the carver and the eater with the best of both worlds: flavor that comes only from cooking with bones and ease of cutting and serving. Also ask your butcher to save the top layer of fat he or she will remove from the top section of the roast.  You want it loose since you're going to season the meat beneath the fat layer before you roast.

Truth is, this fifteen and some pound rib roast nearly cooked itself, but below I offer my preferred method of preparing a lovely feast for friends and family.

There are several schools of thought about cooking roasts.  Some people prefer the so-called high temperature method where the roast is seared and cooked quickly in a high temperature oven sealing in the juices and delivering a savory crispy crust.  Others opt for low temperature-style -- cooking the beast low and slow to insure tender, succulent slices. 

I prefer a combination of the two, especially with a honkin' rib roast that conceivably could take all damned day to cook on the low temp method. By starting the roasting process in a searing hot 450 to 500 degree oven, the exterior of the meat (and its flavoring agents) have a chance to quickly sear and caramelize creating a delicious, crunchy melt in your mouth contrast to the creamy, juicy inner section. By reducing the heat to 325 to 350 degrees for the duration of the cooking (figuring between 18 and 20 minutes per pound for medium rare) you have the perfect marriage.

Now here's how to do it:

First,  bring your roast up to room temperature by leaving it on the kitchen counter for an hour or so while you putter about.  (I know, I know... food-bourne illness patrol having stroke. Get over it. Restaurants and home kitchens have been doing this for centuries.)

Now preheat your oven to 450 to 500 degrees.  (For larger roasts, choose the higher setting, there's more work to do.)

Mash up about 15-20 cloves of garlic in your food processor. Add 1 to 2 tablespoons of salt to the garlic to make a thick paste.

Crush about a quarter cup of black peppercorns in a mortar and pestle.  Don't grind or pulverize them,  you want some texture and variety in shape and size for more interest and flavor.

First spread the black pepper all over the top, bottom and sides of the roast.  Follow with the garlic paste.  Use your hands to massage the garlic and pepper into the flesh. Now, on top evenly distribute between 15 and 20 bay leaves. Slap the slice of fat on top and generously salt and pepper.  Now, place the roast into a heavy roasting pan. Don't use a rack.

Insert a meat thermometer into the thickest part of the meat but not touching a rib bone.

Pour two cups of red wine you wouldn't mind drinking into the bottom and slide it into the blazing hot oven.
Cook about twenty minutes then lower the temperature to 325 to 350.

When the thermometer reads 120 - 125 degrees, pull the roast from the oven and cover with foil.  Allow the meat to rest for at least fifteen minutes before cutting and serving to allow the juices to reabsorb into the tissue. The meat will continue to cook by as much as ten degrees during the resting period. Take this into consideration if you're a fan of really rare roast.

When ready to cut, remove the foil, layer of top fat and butcher's twine holding the bones to the rib eye. Slice thickly and enjoy with horseradish cream and popovers or Yorkshire Pudding, Pan Roast potatoes or twice baked Russets. 
Praise the Lord!

What I learned from my dad

It's no secret that dads and daughters have special relationships.  They adore us and we revere them. Usually.  Year-end always causes me to pause and think about things with an eye toward lessons (and carols.)

It's funny how lessons in living, no matter how prosaic, become life lessons.  Here are some that come from Roy, one of the heros, a true gentleman who lives an honest life fueled by common sense, practical intelligence and a zest for the genuine good stuff.

1. Three logs make a fire.
    Stability, ventilation and balance.  Like a stool, two is too little, four, often too much. Three components offer balance, and a tie breaker.  Valuable in relationships and combustion.
2. Follow at a distance.
    Walking in the woods with a companion, it's usually a good idea to keep a distance between to prevent being snapped in the face with branch recoil. Same theory works on the turnpike. Keep far enough behind to prevent brake-jam chain reactions. Fads and cults? Same deal. Wait. Observe. Consider. Then pile on.  If you must.
3. Use a smart knot to tie your boots.
    By adding an additional wrap to your shoe bow--known by skiers of a certain age as "The Vermont Knot"--footwear stays snug. Life lesson? Measure twice, cut once.
4. Don't swear on the golf course.
    You're wearing a collar on your shirt for a reason. In gentle games, and the game of life you'll make more points if you take your licks with grace, and a civil tongue. Damn it.
5. Eat soup.
     Little else tastes as good, nourishes so well or shows the measure of a kitchen as much as a fine soup. A masterpiece of simplicity, soup is chemistry and alchemy. Healing, soothing, warming, delicious; soup is love in a bowl. Humble ingredients, skillfully combined yield a total equaling much more than the sum of its parts.

SImple advice , life truths.  Thanks, Dad.  I love you. 

I love you, you're perfect, now change.

Well, the big show is over.  Our Superbowl Admeister, one Gino Bona, has returned from points North, West and South to resume life as a better-than-average ad man in Portland, Maine.  His fifteen minutes of fame turned into more than a month of superhoopla shining radiant light on him, on us and on Maine.

Yahoo. Well, sorta. To tell you the truth,  we're all just a little let down. The commercial we fell in love with...Gino's tribute to end of season angst...the sight gags, the silly fan moments, the hilarious ending isn't exactly what turned up in the finished ad.

Seems that the NFL (and über director, Joe Pytka) had other ideas. And as is the case so often in our business, the original idea, the one we loved, prayed for, and voted for got lost a bit in the crucible of groupthink that is advertising.

Truth is, advertising is all about compromise. And input from other sources. And decision making that under the best circumstances makes the work better.  Gino's concept (and those from all the other consumer-generated ads this year)  was formed with little or no input from the client.  No creative brief.  No strategic underpinnings save those he knew intimately as a die hard NFL fan.  Here in agency land, creative concept would never be developed before client input. So it comes as no real surprise that certain aspects of Gino's original concept were, well, off strategy.

Turns out the NFL really didn't like the idea of dragging out an old icon like Dick Butkus.  And the notion of big fat bar tabs?  Not so much.  And Pytka really couldn't stand "Boyz II Men."

"So Hard to say Goodbye" changed. Not the same, but oh-so-good. From the New Orleans Saints funeral march, "Saint James Infirmary" to an insider nod to Brett Farve's wishy- washy future, Pytka and Gino crafted a masterly nod to the symbols of die hard fandom. Not laugh out loud funny but smile 'n nod evoking. And real. Real good. 

Taking a Chance on Love

Sometimes, running an ad business can feel more like braille than brilliance and this Halloween, I was confronted with yet another "hold yer nose and jump" situation. See, in the creative industries, it's not so much about stimulating your staff to greatness with cattle prods.  Things managerial at the ad ranch usually feel more like herding cats.

So, one of my favorite young turks, aptly employed as Official Corporate Troublemaker (aka New Business guy,) sidles up to me and says, "Boss, you gotta fly me to the Meadowlands. I want to pitch an idea to the NFL."

Now, I celebrate optimistic thinking and derring do as much as any card-carrying entrepreneurial crazy, but this gambit felt a little speculative, even to me.  Tempted to accuse the boy of thinly-veiled sports lust, I cautiously asked for a little more information.

"You're kidding, right?" I asked with my mentor hat slightly askew.

"No, it's great! The NFL is holding a contest for the Best Superbowl Commercial Ever and I think I've got the winning idea. They're asking fans from all over the country to come and pitch their ideas.  It's just ninety seconds between me and ad glory!"

"Ninety seconds, thousands of people and a rats chance in hell," I thought to myself.

I tried hard to contain my skepticism. Not wanting to quash the man's enthusiasm, but with a sincere desire to box his ears, I relented.

"Pitch me."

He did, complete with a heart-filled rendition of the Boyz II Men sobber, "It's So Hard to Say Goodbye."

I loved it, and so it began. I bought the ticket and threw caution to the wind.   

Yesterday, a banner headline in USA Today announced our guy had won it all.  National recognition,  trips to LA, NY and South Beach,  and a chance to work with the legendary Joe Pytka.

Some things never change. Follow the love. It's the strongest emotion there is.

Camp Song Wisdom

Remember that old campfire ditty, "Make new friends...but keep the old, one is silver and the other's gold?" Turns out there's truth there. (And just because the camp song you remember most starts out with "great green gobs of greasy, grimey gopher guts..." there's no reason to dis their folksy truth.

Today, I reconnected with a friend from the early 80's, someone who moved west, came back as far as Boston and with whom I've lived in a (disconnected) parallel universe just a hundred miles away for nearly twenty years. She's grown her career, (brilliantly, I might add,) had two children (now in late adolescence and high school) and stayed, well, pretty much the same wonderful woman I knew so well all those years ago.

Our rendezvous got me to thinking about why we let things go that matter to us and how we go about reconnecting the (valuable) dots in our life.

It's the same old story, I guess. Time passes, our attention turns to the matters at hand and, well, it's hard work to stay connected to people whose orbit moves out of sync with our own. But as we age, become more experienced and perhaps more discerning of what really clicks with us, it seems wise to consciously seek those things (and people) with whom our lives have been measurably richer.

With the myriad tools available to the average web user, it ain't that hard to find an old chum. And while sometimes, things and people change, how wonderful to reconnect to find that time, somehow has stood still.

Pass the s'mores, will 'ya?

The heart bone's connected to the...

All my life, everyone said our family trail was lost. Obscured, geneologically speaking, in the bilingual weeds somewhere in deepest, darkest Clinton County, New York. Nobody could remember the details of the paternal line, much before great-grandpa Joseph, that is. Seems the family thought better of its Franco sounding (and looking) surname, and changed it to something more, well, Anglo. (The guy who changed it also appeared to have converted for a time to ..shudder...protestantism! That didn't last long, they buried him in the Catholic cemetary along with the rest of the tribe.)

Trouble is, name changes can spell disaster when it come to unraveling a family blood line. And for now, going on three generations, nobody has really known where we came from. Or when. Until now.

Thanks to the wonderful online registry/search engine/original source repository called Ancestry.com (based, not surprisingly in Utah...) and the tireless work being done by often unknown kin all over the world, I was able to piece together -- reasonably effortlessly -- a family geneology that goes back to the mid-seventeenth century. Early by anyone's count for North Americans, especially those who emigrated to what was then called New France.

Thrilling facts emerged. We came from Normandy, (Rouen, to be specific) across the Atlantic to a place just outside Quebec city, settling on Ile d'Orleans. Our first North American ancestor, Pierre, took a wife in 1656 from among the ranks of the Filles du Roi, (Daughters of the King,) a band of some 700 mail-order brides dispatched by Louis XIV to shore up the flagging French colony on the banks of the St. Lawrence River.

Some five successive generations of Joseph's made their way south and west, along the path of the river 'till they crossed into the US in the mid 1800's presumably to mine coal in Mooers, NY. My grandparents, both from Mooers, moved farther south still, settling in Vermont in the early years of the twentieth century. And as satisfying as a complete family tree can be, it can't compare to how thrilling it is to see your grandfather's World War One draft card describing a man you never knew as a person "of medium height, slender, with blue eyes and auburn hair." Or to read a census record describing your three-year-old grandmother's people as Canadian immigrants, one French and one English, but both English speakers, able to read and write.

So, having thought all my life I would never be able to connect the dots among my Canadian ancestors the way my proud wasp maternal line had done way back to Castle Donnington, England (don't get excited, we lived outside the walls and it's now a speedway...) I am proud to report I will soon be inducted into the Societe de les filles du Roi, an honor as great, or greater to me than all the Mayflower Society members put together. Vive la (Nouvelle) France! and God Bless the internet.

Fifty must be the new... old?

It's begun. The reign of terror called AARP. Every day, it seems, since my 49th birthday I've been receiving these perky little envelopes advising me of my right, nay, RESPONSIBILITY to join the largest single group of involved (albeit retired) citizens on the planet. For a mere twelve dollars and fifty cents, I too, can become a member of the enfranchised old. (With all the benefits and discounts I deserve...)

But wait. When did 49 mean the beginning of the end? Last time I looked, retirement age was at least 62, if not older. That's... (whizz, grrr..ding...ding... sound of art major doing mental math...) thirteen or more years from now. So, what in the world could possibly qualify me to be a member of the American Association of Retired Persons other than a certain distant proximity to the age when most people hang it up for a new life of golf, slow driving and Fox news?

And furthermore, what in the world could AARP see in me? My demographic profile is decidedly not that of the typical AARP member. (Right???) I mean, I'm gainfully employed, wildly busy, fashion forward and still a young(ish) woman. I haven't started worrying about retirement living, early-bird dining or Depends. And to tell you the truth, retirement doesn't sound that appealing to me. In fact, most people I hang around with, all of us fifty-cuspers, are pretty unlike the stereotypical retired person. We work hard, usually too hard, are in the prime of our earning years. We spend a lot of time and energy multi-tasking: taking care of kids, spouses, parents, friends, all on top of our business lives.

I mean, I listen to rap, read Vanity Fair and Vogue and download podcasts. What do I have in common with those 50+ people radio stations tout (you know, the cotton heads who listen to "The Music of Your Life" and want more information on land yachts and municipal bonds? The Music of MY Life is James Taylor and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. For heaven's sake, the Rolling Stones were popular when I was in GRADE school... okay, maybe middle school, but you get the point...)

But maybe that's it. My mental vision of what a "mature" person is ain't quite accurate anymore. Far from little gray-haired ladies who knit and drink sherry...( I am NOT, as we know, little) we are healthier, more active, more mobile and we're also working longer. We're more ethnically diverse, vital and engaged. Plus, there are a lot of us. And while we're not ready to "retire" in the traditional sense, we do represent a powerful group of individuals who will continue to be the biggest bubble in the demographic spectrum. And for sure, our interests will be different from those of our children or our parents.

So AARP, smart devils they are, realize this and, in their ceasless efforts to aggregate, have started early to rein us in since we're likely to represent the largest and most interesting and influential group of "retirees" ever. Maybe getting old ain't what it used to be. It's me... and, as we know, I ain't that.

A little attitude adjusting in order? Hmmm. Perhaps an acronym adjustment would help: Let's change it to the American Association of Real People.